“What other choice do you have?” I ask. “What else can you do?” I take a risk here. “Because you can’t keep us here forever. People know I’m here. They’ll come looking.” Not exactly true. There’s Theo, but he’s presumably banged up in a cell right now and I never told him the address: it would take him some time to find out. But she doesn’t need to know this. I just need to sell it. “And I know you aren’t a killer, Sophie. As you say, you kept him alive. You wouldn’t have done that if you were.”
She watches me levelly. I have no idea if any of this is working. I sense I need something more.
I think of how she said, “My daughter,” the intensity of feeling in it. I need to appeal to that part of her.
“Mimi is safe,” I say. “I promise you that much. If what you’re saying is true, she saved Ben’s life. That means a lot—that means everything. I will never tell anyone what she did. I swear to you. That secret is safe with me.”
Sophie
Can I trust her? Do I have any other choice?
“I will never tell anyone what she did.” Somehow she has managed to guess my greatest fear.
She is right: if I wanted to kill them, I would have done so already. I know that I cannot trap the two of them here indefinitely. Nor do I want to. And I don’t think my stepsons will cooperate with me now. Nicolas appears to be falling apart at the realization of his father’s death; Antoine has helped so far only because he thought he was doing his father’s bidding. I dread to think what his reaction will be when he learns the truth. I will have to work out what to do with him, but that’s not my main problem now.
“You will not tell the police,” I say. It isn’t a question.
She shakes her head. “The police and I don’t get along.” She points to Nicolas. “He’ll back me up on that.” But Nicolas barely seems to hear her. So she keeps talking, her voice low and urgent. “Look. I’ll tell you something, if it helps. My dad was a copper, actually. A real fucking hero to everyone else. Except he made my mum’s life hell. But no one would believe me when I told them about it: how he treated her, how he hit her. Because he was a ‘good guy,’ because he put bad guys in jail. And then . . .” she clears her throat, “and then one day it got too much for my mum. She decided it would just be easier to stop trying. So . . . no. I don’t trust the police. Not here, not anywhere. Even before I met your guy—Blanchot. You have my word that I am not going to go and tell them about this.”
So she knows about Blanchot. I had wondered about calling him for help here. But he has always been Jacques’ man, I do not know if his loyalties would extend to me. I cannot risk him learning the truth.
I size the girl up. I realize that, almost in spite of myself, I believe her. Partly because of what she’s just told me, about her father. Partly because I can see it in her face, the truth of it. And finally, because I’m not sure I have any other choice but to trust her. I have to protect my daughter at all costs: that is all that matters now.
Nick
I am numb. I know that feeling will return at some point, and that no doubt when it does the pain will be terrible. But for now there is only this numbness. There is a kind of relief in it. Perhaps I do not yet know what to feel. My father is dead. I spent a childhood terrorized by him, my whole adult life trying to escape him. And yet, God help me, I loved him, too.
I am acting on pure instinct, like an automaton, as I help to lift Ben, to carry him down the stairs. And though I am numb I am still aware of the strange and terrible echo of three nights ago, when I carried another body, so stiff and still, out into the courtyard garden.
For a moment, our eyes meet. He seems barely conscious, so perhaps I am imagining it . . . but I think I see something in his expression. An apology? A farewell? But just as quickly it is gone, and his eyes are closing again. And I know I wouldn’t trust it anyway. Because I never knew the real Benjamin Daniels at all.
A Week Later
Jess
We sit in silence across the Formica table, my brother and I. Ben knocks back the espresso in its little paper cup. I tear one end from my croissant and chew. This may be a hospital café but it’s France, so the pastries are still pretty good.
Finally, Ben speaks. “I couldn’t help myself, you know? That family. Everything we never had. I wanted to be part of it. I wanted them to love me. And at the same time, I wanted to destroy them. Partly for living off women who might have been Mum, at one stage in her life. But also, I suppose, just because I could.”
He’s looking bloody awfuclass="underline" half his face covered in dark green bruising, the skin above his eyebrow stapled together, his arm in a cast. When we sat down the woman next to us gave a little start of shock and glanced quickly away. But knowing Ben he’ll have an attractive scar to show for it soon enough, one he’ll work into his charm offensive.
I brought him to the hospital in a taxi: with cash from his wallet, naturally. Explained that he’d had a fall on his moped near his apartment, got a pretty bad head injury. Said he’d made it back to his place and collapsed there, totally out of it, until I turned up and saved the day. It raised a few eyebrows—crazy English tourists—but they’ve treated him.
“Thanks,” he says, suddenly. “I can’t believe what you went through. I knew I should have told you not to come and stay—”
“Well, thank God you didn’t, right? Because I wouldn’t have been able to save your life.”
He swallows. I can tell he doesn’t like hearing it. It’s uncomfortable, acknowledging that you need people. I know this.
“I’m sorry, Jess.”
“Well, don’t expect me to rescue you next time.”
“Not just for that. For not being there when you needed me. For not being there the one time it really mattered. You shouldn’t have had to find her alone.”
A long silence.
Then he says, “You know, in a way I’ve always been jealous of you.”
“For what?”
“You got to see her one last time. I never got to say goodbye.” I can’t think of anything to say to this. I couldn’t have imagined anything worse than finding her. But maybe a part of me understands.
Ben glances up.
I follow his gaze and see Theo in a dark coat and scarf, hand raised, on the other side of the windows. I might have lost my phone but luckily I still had his business card in my stuff. With his split lip he now looks like a pirate who’s been in some sort of duel. He looks good, too.
I turn back to Ben. “Hey,” I say. “Your article. You still have it, right?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Yes. Christ knows what they did to my laptop, but I’d already backed it up to my Cloud. Any writer worth their salt knows that.”
“It needs to come out,” I say.
“I know, I was thinking the same thing—”
“But,” I hold up a finger. “We have to do it right. If it publishes, the police will have to look into the club. And those girls who work there—most of them will get deported, right?”
Ben nods.
“So it’ll be even worse for them than it is now,’ I say. I think of Irina. I can’t go back . . . it wasn’t a good situation. I think of how she spoke about wanting a new life. I promised that if I found Ben, I would find a way to help her. I’m definitely not going to be responsible for her being sent home. If we get this wrong, only the vulnerable will get screwed, I know this.